


an ocean with no borders, a spring that never ends

by spacegirlkj



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Florist and Tattooist Au, Hinata - Freeform, Language of Flowers, Multi, Mutual Pining, ah sexual innuendos in the form of poetry and flowers, hanamaki voice: hey hinata wanna get ur dick pierced, hinata while crying: no, prose, some platonic iwahina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: “Give me a flower,” Hanamaki whispers. “Any flower, and Matsukawa will draw it right here.” Hanamaki takes Hinata’s hand, places it over his heart. “A piece of you, a piece of him.”“You’re crazy,” Hinata breathes, shaking his head.“He’s in love,” Matsukawa murmurs. “Aren’t we all?”A florist makes friends and something more with the boys across the street. Its predicable and stupid and expected of him, but enchanting all the same.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so... i got stressed writing idol au (slow burn can suck a dick) so i decided to write some matsuhanahina  
> this is not as dramatic as the description makes it out to be but also it is???? i dont even know at this point but i really enjoyed writing this it was such a blast  
> thank you to @mooksmookin for beta'ing this!! honestly i am So Blessed that they read over my fics id be dead without them and these fics would be even more spelling error ridden. one day ill make a compilation of my hilarious spelling errors, theyre really gold.  
> i hope you all enjoy this fic, and please know that yes, the innuendos are there, and if you think it may have a double meaning it probably does~

On the coast, it rains.

A constant drizzle from the sky above, painting blues to grey and stirring up the beaches enough that they change again. Water runs from the eavestroughs down into the pails used to water the plants, fresh and full and too heavy for Hinata to easily carry. Hinata stops to rest, settling next to a window, his arms aching from emptying a single pail. He can see the ocean from there— the tide pulls back, pushes forwards. He watches from the serenity of the greenhouse windows, tracing his fingers over the waves. Beside him, apricot ice lilies bloom with vigour, cream coloured with hints of blue. Hinata hums, the droning noises of water falling and rushing an ever present melody, and continues collecting the rainwater.

Hinata works the store alone in the mornings— his coworker, Iwaizumi, sleeps in much later than him. It means Hinata spends two hours in solitude, tending to the plants and opening or closing the shutters, depending on how much rain decides to fall.

It also means he gets to make his way to the front, where the bouquets and planters are sold, and wait for _him_ to arrive.

_He_ is Matsukawa Issei, the co-owner and tattooist at Aoba Josai Ink. The first time Hinata saw him, it was a shock. A head full of dark curls, thick, well manicured brows, and round cosmetic glasses adorning his face. He was beautiful by any means, but that wasn't what stood out. Instead, Hinata was drawn to the drawings that peeked from his grey shirtsleeves, of flowers and buildings and faces and words he isn’t always able to make out. Creeping up his neck is a dragon breathing a wave, and when his sweaters slip off his shoulders, Hinata can see the hints of back tattoos exposed. 

Hinata never means to stare, he truly doesn’t, but Matsukawa has a tongue piercing and a centred lip bar and too many ear piercings to count, has a small, silver septum ring that Hinata sometimes forgets even exists. He’s a stroke of black ink in a room full of roses and chrysanthemums and violets, warm cologne mixing with the scent of flowers and sending Hinata into a trance.

“What’ll it be today?” Hinata chimes with a grin, hoping to contain the way carnations bloom in pink across the apples of his cheek. Matsukawa has been visiting almost daily - next Saturday would mark two months— always buying a single flower or three. 

Matsukawa grins, leaning onto the counter and bringing his face closer to Hinata’s. “What do you have in the way of roses?” he asks. His eyes flick from Hinata’s flushed cheeks to his hands, the hands in which he’s currently taken hold of.

That’s another thing about Matsukawa Issei— he’s got a wit as sharp as a dagger and charm as tough as nails. Hinata doesn’t know if he’d call what they do flirting, but whenever it happens when Iwaizumi is around, it earns Matsukawa a slap upside the head and a murmur of distaste.

“We’re working,” Iwaizumi would emphasize. “Go fuck off and draw something.”

It’s okay, because Hinata knows they’re friends. Iwaizumi knows him and the piercer— Hanamaki, and thus, they know Hinata, because Hinata has a way of making himself known.

Today, though, it’s just Matsukawa and Hinata, Hinata and him. Hinata tries to control the way he flushes and tears his eyes from Matsukawa’s geometrically decorated hand, leads him towards the wall of roses and plucks one from the bunches, a white rose stained with red. Matsukawa turns it over in his hands, smiling to himself before slipping the stem between his teeth and fishing some change out from his pockets.

It’s almost routine, and yet it’s something different every time. Hinata only gets a few thousand yen for the flower, but it feels like a fortune to see the way Matsukawa winks at him and tucks the rose behind his ear. 

“So, flower boy,” Matsukawa says, leaning against the wall of roses, so stark against the darkness of his hair. “Are you free Friday night?”

Hinata tries not to stumble. He wants to say _of course I’m free, what else would I be doing_ , but there’s a second where he almost swallows his tongue and has to cough his words back up.

“Yeah, I think?” he says, and it comes out enough like a question that Hinata winces and Matsukawa laughs. “Why?”

“I’m having a party. Nothing big, really. Iwaizumi will be there; Hanamaki too. Do you remember Oikawa, the guy whose family owns the bed and breakfast down the street? He’ll show up too,” Matsukawa tells him. “There’ll be booze and good music. It’s about all I can offer.”

“You think I’d fit in with your crowd?” Hinata chides, biting his tongue. He’s not prissy by any means, and his hands are rough from gardening as a job and a hobby, tongue in cheek and hardly modest by any means. But Hinata has skin olive toned and smooth, without a hint of artwork aside from freckles and blush.

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

And so he leaves, slipping the flower in the inside of his jacket— navy blue and shiny with rain. Hinata watches as he leaves, flipping up his hood and running across the street to avoid the rain. It’s only once Hinata realizes he’s staring off into space in a way too dreamy to be considered normal that he remembers he doesn't have Matsukawa’s number. With a sigh of defeat, Hinata pushes his face into the roses and surprises the embarrassment that begins to stir.

It’s another hour of clipping flowers and assembling bouquets before Iwaizumi arrives, tall coffee cup in hand and a new tin of tea under an arm. Hinata can’t thank him enough, putting on the kettle and opening the lid to smell what kind he had bought. Something herbal, and a touch fruity.

“Did Matsukawa already come by?” Iwaizumi asks, setting down his coffee to join Hinata in assembling the bouquets.

Hinata blushes, turns his head away and busies himself with steeping his tea. “Yeah, bought a rose and invited me to his party,” Hinata replies, failing at keeping his tone nonchalant, excitement seeping through. “C-can you give me his number? So I can ask for the place? I forgot to ask.”

Iwaizumi listens to Hinata stumble over his words, sipping at his coffee and slipping the lilies next to the orchids in the bouquet. “You can ask me for the place, but you have to ask him for the number,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “I’m not playing messenger for your pining.”

Hinata whacks Iwaizumi with a rose stem, thorns and all. “I am _not_ —”

“You are,” Iwaizumi insists, flicking away a thorn stuck in his shirt. “You’re blushing, and you’re always jittery before he comes by.”

Hinata coughs, turning away as his face heats. “Alright, but why does he come by? Surely not everyone wants floral tattoos.”

Iwaizumi shrugs, setting aside another finished bouquet. “I mean, he did one, and then it took off, and now it’s what he’s known for. That, and he wants an excuse to see you.”

Hinata stares down at his hands, wide eyed, finger pricked on a thorn. _He wants to see me_ echoes through his head in a way that makes his tummy broil and flip like fish in a frying pan.

Ten minutes and three bandaids later, Hinata steps out of the shelter of the greenhouse and into the perpetual drizzle that continues to fall, umbrella above his head, three red tulips in hand. It’s a criss cross of jumping puddles and avoiding bikes to get across the road, but when he does, Hinata is met with the neon sign of the parlour and a shit eating grin from the piercer at the counter.

“It’s rude to linger in doorways,” Hanamaki says, and oh god, Hinata isn’t sure if he’s blushing from fear or the fact that Hanamaki’s lazy smile makes his heart pace double time. “Hey there, Hinata. Finally getting your dick pierced?”

Hinata has gotten used to hearing the retort, and manages not to inhale his spit. “You wish,” he stammers, voice wavering, but comment thrown nonetheless. Hanamaki raises his pierced brows in surprise at his response, hops down from where he sat on the counter and holds the door for Hinata as he folds up his umbrella and hangs it with the coats.

There's something rock playing through the speakers in the little lobby space, classic and American and loud enough that there's a crackle. Hinata taps his fingers in tune with it, hums as Hanamaki notices the fistful of flowers in his hand. 

“Tulips?” Hanamaki questions. 

“For Matsukawa’s study,” Hinata explains. “His flower study, er, Iwaizumi told me about it? He always comes by and--”

Hanamaki softens for a moment before his smile stretches, motions for Hinata to come closer. “Then we can get them some water and you can sit pretty until he's done his consult.”

Hinata nods, follows Hanamaki into the tiny back room where he's handed a glass of water for the flowers. Hanamaki watches with interest as Hinata sets them down, careful not to bruise the petals or peel off the leaves. 

Hanamaki is different, and to be fair, Hinata has only met him three times before. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he lets himself observe, lets his eyes trail down his face and across his chest. Hanamaki has a lip bar and ear piercings galore, has soft, watercolour tattoos adorning his hands, his wrists, in the nooks of his arms, at the nape of his neck. It’s intimate in a way that comes with only being exposed by a slip of clothing or a gust of window, dainty yet pigmented so brightly, with purpose in every stroke. Hinata in enraptured, and almost forgets that he is staring. 

“Am I that beautiful?” Hanamaki teases, and Hinata has to flick his eyes back to the tulips instead of the mermaid on his forearm. “Careful now, or you’ll charm the wrong man.”

From behind them, a voice says, “Aw, Makki, there's no such thing,” and Hinata is forced into a soft sigh as his stomach twists as the sound of Matsukawa’s voice. 

Hanamaki smirks at the lilt in Hinata’s voice when he replies with _You never gave me your number, and the tulips were in bloom_. It only makes Hinata blush more when Matsukawa shrugs, replies fair point and types his digits into Hinata’s phone— and to his surprise, he gets Hanamaki’s too. 

—

Hinata shows up at Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s apartment with hard lemonade and a hibiscus blossom.

“So we can pretend we’re somewhere where it doesn't always rain,” he explains when Matsukawa quirks a brow at the flower. It’s pink and yellow and fading to blue, beautiful and bright and smelling like somewhere tropic. Hanamaki swipes it from where it lays on top of the bottles and tucks it behind his ear, grabbing Hinata’s wrist and pulling him inside.

Iwaizumi and their other friend Oikawa, a boy with wavy locks and a childish pout, have already arrived, lounging atop the couch and wrestling over the auxiliary cord. Hinata blinks twice in surprise and shrugs, settling down into one of the plush armchairs and pulling his knees to his chest. Matsukawa pays no mind to the fight currently happening on his couch, snatching the cord from Oikawa’s hand just when the other had thought he had won.

“No one wants to hear your shitty music,” he deadpans, plugging in his own phone and tossing it onto the coffee table. Oikawa whines, draping himself back over the arm of the couch where he notices Hinata’s entrance.

Five minutes of introduction later, followed by relentless questioning on how Hinata knows everyone, Hinata finally manages to settle into the pace of easy jests and whatever drink he’s been served. Matsukawa sits on the floor in front of him, the lack of space on the couch forcing him onto the ground. Hinata can’t help but feel guilty for pushing him out of his own chair, but Matsukawa doesn't seem to mind, and Hanamaki insists the floor deserves him.

It’s funny, watching the way they all interact. Hinata’s never been much of a wallflower, but he’s enjoyed people watching ever since he was a kid and he’s never made an exception for friends before. Before him, he listens to the way the conversation weaves easy, laughs along and buts in when he can. But he also watches the scrunch of Hanamaki’s nose when he tries arm wrestling Iwaizumi (and loses), watches the wordless communication that he and Matsukawa share alongside little glances and faces made from across the floor. 

Every so often, Hinata will shift the way he sits, and Matsukawa will turn around and look up at him before flicking at his leg. From the angle he sits at, Hinata can see the swirling tattoo that covers his neck, the head of a dragon with its mouth open wide.

It’s hard to follow conversation when it becomes muddled with the buzz of his drink and the hum of voices, mixed with whatever grunge rock playlist Matsukawa decided to put on. Hinata can feel Matsukawa’s head against his knee, feels his heartbeat in the pulse of his neck. It's loud and drowns out the guitar progressions and the laughter in the conversation and forces him to close his eyes to calm it down.

Hinata brings his bottle to his lips, tilting it upwards only for a trickle of liquid to drip out. With a sigh, he pouts down at the bottle, as if he could simply will it to fill up again with a look.

“I’m gonna get something else to drink,” Hinata announces, slipping his feet out from under him and narrowly avoiding kicking Matsukawa in the face. He squeaks at the near miss, but Matsukawa simply sends him a smile and goes back to listening to Oikawa talk as Hinata makes his way through the mess of empty bottles and discarded pillows that litter the floor. It seems the drinks have caught up to him, what with how the warmth clings to him and the ever present buzz that moves through his veins. It’s sheer luck that he doesn’t stumble until he’s out of their line of sight. 

There’s a wall that separates the kitchen from the living area. The lights have been turned off. Hinata feels around the wall for the light switch, squinting when the bright light above the stove flickers on. Hinata walks towards the counter where the unopened bottles of liquored lemonade lie, leaning forwards onto the cool granite of the countertop. It’s a few moments before he gives into the queasy stir of his stomach and rests his head onto it, breathing heavy as his thoughts swarm.

Hinata wants to be angry at himself for being overwhelmed, for feeling like the walls are closing in on him, but can’t when his bones already feel twenty time heavier than they should be. There isn’t a reason for him to be as worked up as he is, no reason for everything to feel a thousand time more than it really is. The weight of the air around him feels thick, feels hot and sticky, so unlike the skin of his hands that grows clammy against the cool of the counter with every passing second. With heavy lungs, Hinata counts the inhales, counts the little breaths. 

_In, out. In, out. In—_

“Hinata?” a voice says, breaking through the otherwise silence of the kitchen.

Hinata jerks upwards, flipping around to press his backside against the counter. In the doorway of the kitchen stands Hanamaki, staring towards Hinata with a bottle still in his hands, a familiar lilt to his lips, and a slight hint of something akin to worry in his eyes.

“I came to check on you,” he explains, setting his bottle down on the counter. “You were gone awhile. You alright?”

Hinata takes a deep breath, averting his gaze as not to meet Hanamaki’s. “I’m fine. A bit overwhelmed, but fine,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “Just needed to calm down.”

Before Hinata can think over what he had just admitted, Hanamaki moves past him and opens the fridge, sticking his head in and looking around.

“Do you want a milkshake?” he asks, closing one door and opening another.

“A milkshake?”

“Yeah, a milkshake. Ever heard of them?” Hanamaki replies, grinning as he pulls out a tub of ice cream from the freezer.

Hinata pouts. “Of course I know what a milkshake is,” he bites back, voice too soft to be any kind of bitter. “Yes, please,” he adds after a moment, voice slightly quieter.

Hanamaki turns his head, grin wider and stretching up towards his eyes. “Great, but it’s not gonna be free. You gotta let me know if you’re _really_ okay first,” he tells him, scooping the ice cream into a blender.

Hinata huffs, jumping to sit atop one of the counters as Hanamaki busies himself with the milkshake. Hanamaki looks over his shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow as if to sat go on.

“It’s just you guys are so cool, y’know?” Hinata whines, crossing his legs.

Hanamaki snorts. “Thank you for inflating my ego, but don’t let Oikawa hear that.”

“No, I mean you. And Matsukawa,” Hinata elaborates. “You’re intimidating, with your fancy house and your cool tattoos and your rock music and fruity booze and your pretty faces.”

This time, Hanamaki laughs, full and warm as he slips berries into the blender. “You think I’m pretty?”

Hinata nods, brain not fully registering the fact that he’s spilling his woes. “You’ve got this cute little smirk and your nose scrunches up when you laugh, and you have all this cool gold ear chains ‘nd stuff,” Hinata tells him. 

“Really? What about Mattsun?” Hanamaki questions, quirking the corner of his mouth.

“Matsukawa is amazing,” Hinata whispers, eyes wide and adoring. “He looks so good in the rain— how does he do that? And he’s always joking, and his tattoos—”

“Alright there, Hinata, I think you’re drooling,” Hanamaki says with a smile, popping the blender offand grabbing a glass of the counter.

Hinata hums in response, rocking back and forth as Hanamaki pours the milkshake into a glass and grabs a straw. Turning around, he presents Hinata with the drink, a grin on his face and a softened look in his eyes. 

“Ta-dah~” he sings, biting his lip at the lights in Hinata’s eyes. Hinata smiles around the straw, drinking the milkshake and pulling away to respond.

“Thank you Hanamaki,” he says, and if Hinata’s heart twitches at the way Hanamaki’s smile changes, then it’s a secret he’ll have to keep.

—

Hinata has started making bouquets of flowers that don’t reach the storefront, tying them with stray string and bringing them to the tattoo parlour with tea balanced in his other arm. On the first day, Hinata learns Matsukawa likes peppermint tea straight and Hanamaki loves lavender sweetened with ginseng and honey. Hinata starts making the tea bags himself and boiling them in separate batches, covering the tops of the mugs in paper so the rain doesn't water the drinks down.

On Wednesday, it’s a bowl of rose petals, the ones that have drifted from the flowers and one the floor. Hinata’s kept them from being bruised, the white and red petals without flecks of dirt or tarnish. When he sets them onto the counter, he’s greeted with a note in a neat scrawl.

_Hanamaki’s with a customer, I’ll be back by nine. Stick around, would you?_

_-M.I_

Hinata finds himself staring down at the cursive for much longer than justifiable, tracing his fingers over the swirls of ink across the page. Anticipation flutters in the swell of his stomach, raises butterflies and stray leaves across his chest in a fit of palpitations. It’s still another ten minutes until Matsukawa gets back, leaving him alone in the lobby to wait. 

There’s something riddled with synths playing, electric guitar bright and clean against the hum that fills the room with noise. Hinata moves to sit down on one of the plush armchairs in the waiting area, snuggling closer to the cushions. Around him are various pictures against a blue wall, of thinly lined tattoos made with a delicate hand, water coloured blossoms and different bits of script in languages Hinata can’t speak. Beside them are more pictures, those ones of healed piercings on ears and lips and navels, with shiny gold and silver bars. It’s hard not to stare at it— at the beauty of the different pieces and the way they all fit together. Hinata’s wanted a tattoo for as long as he can remember, but the price had always made him wince. It didn't get any better once Hinata had seen Matsukawa’s artwork— it was double the price, but a million times prettier than any other artist’s work he’d ever seen.

The faint sound of a bell chiming pulls Hinata’s attention to the door, where Matsukawa walks in balancing a sketchbook under his arm. His hair is curling at the ends from the humidity and rain, little water droplets rolling off his jacket and onto the floor. Hinata smiles from where he sits as he walks in, standing up and grabbing the bowl of petals for the counter.

“For you,” Hinata supplies, displaying its contents for Matsukawa as he discards his jacket onto the rack. “I thought it’d be nice totry something different for a change.”

Matsukawa smiles, right corner of his mouth lifting as he reaches into the bowls to fondle the different petals between his fingers. When he looks back up, it’s to see Hinata with expectant eyes and a look of nervousness upon his face. Within a second, Matsukawa has wrapped an arm around Hinata’s shoulders, pulling him in close and leading him towards the backroom.

“C’mon,” he says with a lopsided grin. “I got something I want you to see.”

—

That something turns out to be a sketch of a silhouetted tree, with faint pink blossoms raining down around it. Matsukawa opens the sketchbook, unfolding the paper to its full size to let Hinata see. With careful hands, Hinata ghosts over it, the knots in the bark, the little twist in the branches. It’s only after closer inspection that he sees a figure of a person in the tree, extending a hand to try and catch the flowers in the wind.

“I designed it,” Matsukawa says, voice close to Hinata’s ear, quiet and warm. He jumps, but Matsukawa continues. “A guy I know— Kuroo— is gonna do it. I sketched out the design and idea, but this is his rendition of it. What do you think?”

Hinata continues to stare at the drawing, noticing the intricacies of every pen stroke, every detail made into something wonderful. “It’s gorgeous,” he breaths, face lifting up in amazement. “A tattoo?”

“Yeah, on my right ribcage,” Matsukawa says. “I’ve been hesitant with chest ideas, because the only bit I have is my traditional upper left sleeve that connects onto my pectoral, right? I want something else to cover the sides, seeing as my front is practically bare.”

Hinata nods, hyper aware of the way Matsukawa’s hand is resting on his hip and the brush of his nose on his hair. It makes him nervous, makes him excited, makes him sigh in relief at the warm creeping across his skin.

Suddenly, the door behind them opens, and Hanamaki saunters in, one part curious and two parts unfazed. Hinata freezes, but Matsukawa doesn’t pull away, looking up and shooting Hanamaki a grin.

“Hey, finally done?” Matsukawa asks, thumb rubbing circles into Hinata’s hipbone.

Hanamaki groans, downing the last of his coffee before dropping it into the bin. “God, he had so many questions,” he complains. With a raise of a brow, he turns towards a flustered Hinata and a composed Matsukawa, raising a brow. “What’cha up to?”

“Talking about my new tattoo,” Matsukawa replies. Hinata has to stop himself from whining when Matsukawa slips away to face him. 

There’s a lull of silence as Hanamaki moves closer, sitting on top of the table beside Matsukawa and Hanamaki. Hinata flicks his eyes between the two, relaxing his shoulders as he watches Matsukawa’s eyes trail over him.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asks.

“What?”

“Getting a tattoo.”

Hinata shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I’d like too, but it’s really expensive and I don’t know if I can afford that right now.”

Hanamaki laughs from beside him, crossing a leg and leaning closer. “Hinata, you know a tattoo artist. That’s not really a problem.”

“Yeah, but... I wouldn't wanna take advantage of you,” Hinata mumbles, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Nah, you wouldn't be,” Matsukawa says, catching Hinata’s chin as raising it to look at him. “Do you want something done? I have time today, I don't have any appointments for a few hours.”

Hinata’s eyes widen in surprise, taken aback at the offer. “I don’t have any money—”

“Babe, we established this is free already,” Hanamaki adds. Hinata has to control his breathing at the pet name because _something that small shouldn't make his face heat up this much._

Hinata holds his breath as the two stare at him, expecting and eager. There’s a fizzle of excitement inside him, one that prompts him to drop the tension held in his body and finally smile wide.

“Sure,” Hinata breathes, not regretting the words as they slip past his lips. “Why not?”

—

Four hours later, Hinata heads home with a feather etched onto his collarbone, with tiny crows flying from the ends. It’s fluid and beautiful, with lines that move like strokes of paint and fine details drawn with careful precision. It was painful, to say the least. Hinata spent the entire time biting down on his lip as Matsukawa loomed over him, making jokes to ease the scratching feeling and sending him reassuring smiles whenever their eyes caught. Hanamaki was still busy with other clients, meaning he only got to stop by in-between sessions to admire the progress and chat with Hinata to get his mind off of the pain. They ended up swapping their stupidest ideas— Hanamaki winning out with the plan to use a bed sheet as a robe when answering the door for the pizza man.

“Really, I was naked and not putting clothes on for something as stupid as that,” Hanamaki had justified, earning a snicker from Matsukawa and an eye roll from Hinata.

Now, Hinata stands in front of his cracked bedroom mirror, peeling off the bandage and applying the salve like directed. The black ink stands stark against the olive tones of his skin, vivid and dark and sore to the touch. Hinata ghosts his hands over it for a moment longer than needed, wonders what it would feel like to run his hands over the tattoos across Matsukawa’s body, or the one on Hanamaki’s neck, wonders what it’d feel like to have them drag fingertips over the feather. Would it send shivers down his spine? Would their eyes darken? Soften? Would their hands travel lower, trace across his jaw, down his side, over his ribcage to rest on his hips?

Hinata exhales in content, rubbing the tattoo once more. It feels nice, to have something of Matsukawa’s on him.

—

Snow falls on the last day of February and melts the second it hits the ground. The roads are slick with ice, the ocean’s tide ripping back and forth with the strength of a thousand bodies at once, tearing at the coast line behind the greenhouse. Hinata has the heat on high, radiators buzzing loud and drowning out his thoughts. The early rush of February has long since ended, store traffic dying down, the weather keeping anyone from coming in. Hinata knows it’ll be a week or so before the springtime wedding orders come in, but for now, he spends his time with Iwaizumi, tending to the flowers in the greenhouse and seeking the warmth it provides.

It’s tiring - not the work, but thinking about the people across the street and pining with such energy that it becomes draining. Hinata sits back on his heels, dusting the soil off of his gloves and crawling over to where his water bottle is. Iwaizumi watches him with careful eyes, narrowing them as Hinata sighs and clonks his head against one of the carts.

“You need to do something about this,” Iwaizumi tells him. “Now you’re all turning googly-eyed at each other. It’s horrible.”

Hinata groans, taking another sip of his water before tugging off his gloves. “It’s not fair, Iwaizumi, I don't know how I’m supposed to make a move on two people.”

“You do realize they’re probably waiting for you to do something though?”

“What?!”

Iwaizumi nods. “They’re assholes like that, and Matsukawa is a bit of a sadist. Really though, they just don’t want to push you.”

Hinata nods, sighing at the truth in Iwaizumi’s words. With the advice out in the air and a sense of direction placed somewhere onto him, Hinata and Iwaizumi finish their work in silence, closing early to get home before the sun sets.

As Hinata fumbles with the lock, he hears footsteps behind him and the familiar sound of laughter through the wind. Turning his head once the lock is turned in place, he faces Hanamaki and Matsukawa, bundled up and wearing paired grins, sinister and inviting as they huddle closer together.

“Hey,” Hanamaki says. “Wanna do something fun?”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s idea of fun turns out to be a trip to the cliffs, where the ocean breaks against rock and sprays salt water across the landing. The lighthouse is a tourist spot, but today the three make their way to the edge, standing where their footings are sure to stay and waiting for the tide to ricochet back against them.

It’s cold, and Hinata is just glad he’s wearing clothes that he doesn’t mind ruining with saltwater by the time he sees the waves coming. Matsukawa cracks a smile and pulls him closer, grimacing as the wave splashes against the rocks, sending droplets of water cascading down onto them, mixing with the rain and snow and leaving them soaked to the bone.

Hanamaki spits the salty water from his lips, sputtering for a moment. He’s gotten the brunt of it, the seawater drenching his entire right side, dripping down his neck and soaking his shoes. Hinata isn't much better, but at least he was saved from the spray. Still, being furthest away didn’t keep him from ending up with water dripping from his hair.

“You’re crazy!” Hinata yells over the waves. He doesn't know who he’s talking about at this point, smiling like a maniac and laughing at the way Matsukawa’s eyes light up in his amusement.

“You’re the one who went along with it!” Hanamaki shouts back, and they're all clutching their cribs in stitches when the next wave hits, spewing a sheet of water overtop of them as it smack against the rocks. 

The ocean, Hinata realizes, has no borders. It doesn't wait for anyone. With a grin, he slips one hand in Matsukawa’s and the other in Hanamaki’s, bites his lip and braces for the next wave.

When they’ve finally gotten over the thrill of shivering and the taste of salt has grown too concentrated to be comfortable, they hail a cab and pay in soggy bills, heading towards Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s apartment. Hinata can’t hide how his teeth chatter and hands shake, but Matsukawa drops the keys five times while trying to unlock the door, so he knows he’s not alone in it. 

Hinata is shuffled into the bathroom with the insistence of warming up. He’s handed a pair of dry clothes before the door is closed behind him. The bathroom is small with an odd kind of seventies vibe that comes along with the raspberry coloured walls and the navy blue shower curtains. Hinata doesn't waste much time lingering on the decor, instead choosing to strip from his sopping wet clothes and step into the warmth of the shower.

He’s comfortable enough to steal the shampoo and body wash lying on the shelves, lathering it over his body and humming at the familiar scent of someone else. It makes his toes curl and his stomach twist, makes him happy in a way he strangely doesn't want to admit and makes him blush like one thousand red camellia on a spring day. With body wash that brings the image of Hanamaki’s smile to his mind, he scrubs away the salt from his skin, bathing in the warmth of the water on his back and the surreality of the situation.

Once Hinata regains the feeling in his toes, he shuts off the water, steps out of the shower and towels off his hair. The room is thick with steam, warm and fogged like a sauna, and Hinata would be lying if he said the humidity was welcome. He’s quick to change into the clothes given to him, rolling the sweatpants three times at the waist. The shirt slips off his shoulders, too big to rest properly, but Hinata can bring himself to be upset when it smells so distinctly like Hanamaki— lemon laundry detergent and whatever cologne he loves to use.

When he steps out of the bathroom and towards the living room where Hanamaki and Matsukawa sit, already changed into dry clothes, the shift in the air is tangible. He can feel their gaze on him, their eyes roaming the exposed skin of his collarbone and the feather that lies there, eyeing him up without an inch of shame.

Hinata blushes, but he grins, surprising himself by saying, “Wow, I didn't know you guys had a thing for me in your clothes.”

The reaction is instantaneous— Hanamaki chokes on his tea and Matsukawa’s face grows the slightest shade of pink. Hinata giggles at their faces and sits down on the couch, wedging himself in the small space between them. He’s giddy of the craze of being showered by the ocean and the power that comes with having the two people who he’s been falling for wrapped around his finger, so he rolls out his shoulders and lets the shirt slip lower until his entire shoulder is exposed, and it isn't three seconds before Matsukawa has his lips against his, pressing Hinata against Hanamaki’s chest as they move against one another.

Hinata can’t be shocked, but he allows himself to shudder when he feels Hanamaki’s arms wrap around his waist, playing with the hem of his own shirt. A pair of lips move soundlessly against his neck, mouthing at his pulse point and suckling a mark below his ear. Hinata breaths heavy against Matsukawa, moving his own arms to reach up and tangle in his curls. Matsukawa shifts, turning so that his entire body is facing Hinata, adjusting him so that Hinata sits perfectly in Hanamaki’s lap. 

Hanamaki’s hands continue to ghost over his sides, slipping underneath the shirt to roam up his chest. Hinata shivers, mouth opening enough for Matsukawa to slip his tongue in past Hinata’s lips, pressing against his own. Hinata can barely focus on thinking when Matsukawa pulls away to bite at his lip again, slow and languid, and it's all he can do to pull him back towards him and press their lips together again. Hanamaki goes back to the original task of kissing at his neck, lips kissing trails slowly over the other side of Hinata’s neck. It makes Hinata squirm more than he cares to admit, kisses becoming sloppy as his mind goes blank.

“Hah,” Hanamaki breaths, and it’s only then that Hinata realizes his squirming has more of an effect that he’d care to admit. Hinata pulls away from Matsukawa, turning around for a moment to crane his neck and capture Hanamaki’s lips with his own. Behind him, Hinata hears Matsukawa sigh, heavy and full of need.

“Makki, I think I’m gonna die,” he groans, and Hinata breaks away to laugh.

“You and me both, babe.”

—

When Hinata shows up to work the next day, it's with three irises blooming on his neck and a dumbfounded grin that radiates glee, all Iwaizumi does is shake his head and roll his eyes. 

“ _Finally_.”

—

Things don't change, and yet they do. Hanamaki shows up at his apartment at odd hours just to cuddle. Hinata schedules his lunch hours around their bookings so that they can eat together. Matsukawa still drops by each morning to pick out a flower; only now, it's free, and Hinata tucks it behind his ear and seals each deal with a kiss, gives an extra for Hanamaki and makes him promise to tell him he says hello.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s apartment is filled to the brim with flowers and plants, resting in spare glasses and vases, potted in tiny pots and set on open window sills. Hinata’s flowers move into their space, reminding them of ginger hair and sunshine smiles, of the boy across the street with roses to bloom. 

And Hinata worships them, worships the moles and love marks and freckles across Hanamaki’s face, worships every curve and dip in Matsukawa’s body. They lay in their bed, Hinata tracing fingertips over the movements in his sleeve, admiring the different drawings that lay across his skin.

On his left arm is a traditional sleeve, with not an inch of uncovered skin. Flowers swirl together with tsunami waves and beasts with three mouths, wrap around his forearm and stretch over his shoulder to rest on his pectoral. The other arm is more modern, with an array of flowers on his wrists, drawings of mermaids on the inside of his arm and some kind of wind connecting it all together. There’s stupid things among the beauty— a cat with a knife, obscene hand gestures and signs that make Hinata rolls his eyes, a shitty drawing of a dog playing guitar. Matsukawa kisses the top of Hinata’s head as he admires, obeys when Hinata whispers for him to roll over and show his back.

His back is a story, with proverbs written in japanese and latin and greek, snakes and water and an enormous dragon climbing up his spine, over top of his shoulders and twisting onto his neck. It’s crimson and black with flecks of dark green and orange and only the softest blues, baby pinks swirling down in the form of cherry blossoms. It’s thinly lined, with an ancient feel, covering his entire back in a piece that must’ve taken day to complete. It feels intimate, how Hinata runs his hands over his shoulder blades, rests his cheek on his back and breathes together in time. Gently, Matsukawa turns back over, sitting up so that he can meet Hinata halfway, pressing a kiss, so much softer than expected, to his lips.

Hanamaki’s tattoo’s are much more sparse— watercolor flowers, peonies and poppies, roses and lavender bushels. Hanamaki tells him he was always Matsukawa’s test subject, a practice canvas for different designs of flowers and trees. They rest in odd places: the divet of his hip, his neck, curled on the small of his back. A wild rose around his belly button, two camellia blossoms on the inside of his thighs. They’re softer, and yet somehow more lewd. Against the metallic sheen of his piercings, the one on his navel, the many on his ears and lips and brow and tongue. They seem tempting, like something forbidden, like pomegranate seeds in the underworld, or a rose shrouded in thorns.

And then Hinata lets himself be pushed down against the sheets, with Hanamaki pressing feather soft kisses onto his collarbone and phantom hands slipping up his sides. Hinata sighs, a kind of breathless amazement swelling when he sees Matsukawa tracing fingertips over his ribs, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You’d look nice with petals,” Matsukawa murmurs, watching as Hanamaki continues pressing kisses to Hinata’s throat. “A tattoo on the neck will hurt much less than the one on your collar.”

Hinata hums, closing his eyes as Hanamaki moves away from his neck.

“Yeah, but wouldn't an ear bar look so nice on him?” Hanamaki proposes, moving to brush his thumb over Hinata’s ear. “That, or a helix piercing.”

Matsukawa hums,nuzzling his face into the crook of Hinata’s shoulder. “Shou, babe, what do you think?”

There really isn’t any argument. Hinata trusts them with his heart, so he trusts them with their needles when he sits in the chair and waits for the metal to pierce his ear or his skin, holds onto the other’s hand and waits for the pain to cease. In the end he gets a cascading swirl of sakura petals on his neck, and an ear bar fastened with rose jewelry. It swells a bit, but Hanamaki is meticulous in taking care of it, forcing Hinata to stay with them for an entire week until it heals. There’s no complaints either way, and Matsukawa takes the time to learn how to make Hinata blush, to imagine what it’d be like if this was life in every moment.

—

Hinata soon learns that he’s dating two saps. It’s clear when a handwritten note is exchanged for a single red rose, Matsukawa leaving a kiss on Hinata’s cheek before he dashes across the road and back to his parlour. The letter is sealed in an envelope, a pressed stamp holding it closed. Hinata turns it over in his hands twice before slipping it behind the counter to open when the store is less busy, returning to his task of showing a soon-to-be-bride their carnations.

It isn’t until Iwaizumi comes in that he’s able to open the letter, sitting down behind the counter as he tears it open and unfolds the paper, smoothing out the creases and reading the blue ink.

_Hinata Shouyou,_

_I, Hanamaki Takahiro, and my partner Matsukawa Issei, would like to invite you to dinner at six thirty pm on this April the second. Please dress formally, and expect for, and I quote, “a night full of fun and pleasure.”_

_-Your loves,_

_Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei._

Hinata feels himself blush, a smile working its way onto his face without warning. Slipping the note into his pocket, he spends the rest of his day drumming his knuckles onto the table, anticipation forcing him to become a jittery mess as he waits for the clock to wind down towards closing.

When he arrives home, it’s with only an hour to shower and get ready, pulling out his only formal wear and smoothing out the one black tie he owns. He racks his mind for a reason for the occasion, coming up empty handed with nothing to show but nerves and an excited buzz that makes him jump when he hears the telltale knock on his door.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa are dressed to the nines, Hanamaki, with a grey suit jacket thrown over one shoulder, and Matsukawa, in all black, a bouquet of blue roses in his hands. Hinata feels his heart flutter as Hanamaki leans down to kiss his cheek, placing a hand to the small of his back and leading him out of the door.

“You know,” Hinata says, after finally finding his voice. “Those roses are artificially coloured.”

Hanamaki snickers, but Matsukawa just reaches around and flicks his head. “They’re different, but pretty,” Matsukawa says. “Like you.”

Hinata doesn't know why that makes him blush, when Matsukawa has said far worse things whispered in his ear. Hanamaki simply laughs, like wind chimes, links their hands and leans onto them.

“You two are so adorably hot, it’s sickening,” he coos, licking his lips and smiling as he holds open the car door for them both. Hinata grins, and Matsukawa reaches forwards and slaps Hanamaki’s ass.

The restaurant they take Hinata to is small in size, hidden on the corner of a long boulevard near the pier. The inside is dimly lit, with sparkling chandeliers illuminating the room with shards of light. They’re seated in a corner booth, tucked away from the rest of the world where the only connection they have is with each other. On the table lies a candle, flickering bright and warm in between them. The room is filled with the sounds of soft piano and bass, humming softly as Hinata tangles his fingers with Hanamaki’s, waiting for the waiter to come by.

Matsukawa orders a bottle of pinot noir, and the server comes by with glasses and a basket of fresh bread and oil. Hinata raises a brow, he and Hanamaki extending their glasses for Matsukawa to pour. There aren't any words spoken between them until the wine has been poured, Hanamaki being the first to raise his with a smirk.

“A toast,” he hums, looking between Matsukawa and Hinata with a smile. “To us.”

Matsukawa snorts, but raises his glass alongside Hinata and touches them together with soft _clink_.

“To us,” Matsukawa echoes.

“To us,” Hinata whispers, bringing his glass to his lips.

Hinata reaches forward, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into the oil. Underneath the table, he kicks Matsukawa’s shin, earning him a playful glare and sharp kick back. Hanamaki continues sipping at his wine, watching the scene unfold with a look of fondness across his face.

“I’d say I can’t believe you’re playing footsie at a place like this, but the reality is I want to join in,” he laughs.

Hinata stops for a moment to reach over and squeeze Hanamaki’s knee, resting his head against his shoulder. There’s a moment where everything is warm, and Matsukawa’s eyes glimmer, and Hanamaki’s soft laughter sounds so much like music alongside all of the piano. Food comes, and Hinata lifts delicately crafted morsels to his lips, aware of the eyes that follow him as he does so. He can only smirk, act coy, pretend as if the flutters of his eyes and the turn of his neck are unintentional.

Matsukawa rolls up his sleeves somewhere along the way, as Hanamaki launches into another story, grin wide as waves his hands. Hinata flicks his eyes from Hanamaki’s wild glee to Matsukawa’s newly exposed wrists, inky words etched onto the hand he rests his chin onto. Hanamaki’s story soon ends, and a question comes into his mind.

“What do your tattoos mean?” Hinata asks. “The proverbs.”

Matsukawa seems taken aback, pausing the swirling of his wine to set the glass back down onto the table. Reaching across, he grabs Hinata’s hands, brings them to touch the greek script along his skin.

“Συν Αθηνά και χείρα κίνει,” Matsukawa says. “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”

“And on your back?”

“ _Not seeing is a flower_ , meaning reality cannot compete with imagination. The other is _of the cherry blossom; of men, the warrior,_ ” Matsukawa tells him. “The piece on my back was the first I ever got, when I was eighteen. Oikawa knew someone who owed him a favour— god knows why— and as a birthday present, that favour was exchanged as a fancy new tattoo. Turns out the guy knew what he was doing.”

“I remember that,” Hanamaki reminisces. “Everyone thought you were so chill, just listening to music and sleeping, when really you were silently sobbing like a baby.”

Hinata looks over to Matsukawa, who only rolls his eyes. “Hiro, babe, you were a sniffling mess when I tatted your inner thighs.”

Hinata watches as Hanamaki blushes red, taking a sip of his drink in lieu of a response. Reaching forward, Hinata tangles a hand with each of theirs, creating a small circle as the waiter drops off the bill. No one makes any move to pick it up.

When they arrive back at Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s place, the roses are dropped onto the counter, and Hinata is laid in a bed of lemon scented sheets. The finely pressed button downs come undone, leaving skin against skin against skin against sheets, Hinata’s lips pressed against Hanamaki’s with Matsukawa’s drifting lower than his hips, colourful hands painting trails down his thighs. Hinata arches his back and sighs into every touch, every drag, presses of lips to necks and hipbones and the two camellia on the inside of Hanamaki’s thighs. Little deaths accompany little whines, little hitches in breaths that would’ve remained unheard if not for the way they became treasured in the space between them.

Inside of him, Hinata feels love and flowers bloom, feel tattoos of love bites and kisses etch onto his skin. When he cracks open his eyes to see Hanamaki smiling, to see the look of fondness on Matsukawa’s face, it’s more than anything he could’ve ever imagined. The cool touch of metal when they kiss, the warmth of every touch. And basking in the glow of moonlight and candles, Hinata embraces love in the form of the two men in front of him, in the form of smiles and smirks and humour as bright as day.

When it’s over, and they’re lying tangled in each other’s arms, Hinata hears Hanamaki whispering something, leaning over his chest to kiss Matsukawa before moving to press his nose to Hinata’s head.

“Give me a flower,” Hanamaki whispers. “Any flower, and Matsukawa will draw it right here.” Hanamaki takes Hinata’s hand, places it over his heart. “A piece of you, a piece of him.”

“You’re crazy,” Hinata breaths, shaking his head.

“He’s in love,” Matsukawa murmurs. “Aren’t we all?”

Hinata smiles, laughs softly as he closes his eyes. There’s a moment of comfortable silence before he speaks, curling closer to the body beside him.

“Morning glory,” Hinata tells them. “A promise.”

—

_“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.”_

 

_“...and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?”_

 

 

_― Vincent Van Gogh_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAA tysm for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thats thats me screaming because you read this fic  
> please leave kudos and comments, theyre always appreciated! as always, hmu on tumblr to talk rarepairs @ spacegaykj


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